


Unexpected

by Magniflorious



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 12:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magniflorious/pseuds/Magniflorious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There hasn't been a male bearer (omega) among dwarves since the Second Age.  That doesn't stop Dwalin, of all dwarves, from presenting as one.  Now he has to deal with the consequences.</p><p>No one was surprised when Bilbo presented as a sire (alpha) just like his mother.  But then Bilbo learns a hard truth about adventure--it can break your heart.  He doesn't want to be like his mother, anymore.</p><p>When they meet, neither Dwalin nor Bilbo knows what to think of the other.  Luckily, their adventure will give them plenty of time to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Protection and Love

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Hobbit_.
> 
> I've played with the ages of some of the dwarves, and in this fic Thrain is lost from the field of battle at Azanulbizar, rather than disappearing later. Also, I'm playing with the effects of shock and smoke inhalation for dramatic effect.
> 
> This is not a trope I'm very familiar with, so I'm out of my comfort zone here. It's unsettling. :) I hope you enjoy!

Dwalin’s earliest memory is one of protection.

_He is playing with Frerin, rolling a ball back and forth, when another dwarfling runs past, knocking them both down into the dirt. Dwalin cares little for himself, but Frerin is small, being several years younger, and when he hits the ground his eyes well with tears he tries vainly not to shed._

_Dwalin shoots to his feet and chases after the dwarfling, dragging him back to face the prince. “Say you’re sorry,” he says, solemn as only a child can be._

_The other dwarf puts his hands on his hips, staring up at him. “Or what?”_

_Dwalin thinks about it, and shrugs. “Or I’ll knock you down, too.”_

_The boy apologizes. Frerin stops crying._

What Dwalin remembers most is how _right_ it felt, keeping his friend from further harm.

 

Nothing is right about what comes next. It could have been days later, or even months, but the next thing Dwalin remembers is running from the fire of a dragon. 

_His lungs feel tight from smoke and fear, and he clings to Balin’s hand as they flee. His brother tries to hide his eyes as they pass charred bodies that were once friends, but Dwalin pushes his hand away, because he has to see in order to keep running. He tries not to look at the bodies, but the glimpses he gets are enough for years of nightmares._

_They run through the gates, but when Dwalin realizes Thorin is not with them he stops. Ripping his hand from his brother’s, he tries to run back inside, because safety’s worth nothing if Thorin’s not beside him, but Balin grabs him around the waist and hauls him bodily to safety._

_He thinks Thorin’s dead, charred like the bodies he saw, and it’s the only time Dwalin can remember crying. Lost in his helplessness, it takes a punch in the arm for Dwalin to realize Thorin is safe, standing before him._

What Dwalin remembers most from this memory is the feeling of uselessness that comes with this hard lesson: Not even the best fighters can save everything.

 

Dwalin comes of age without presenting. Whispers begin to follow in his wake: there is something _not right_ about the second son of Fundin, something keeping him from maturing. At times, Dwalin catches his father staring at him as if searching for a defect. Conversations between his parents end abruptly when he enters the room, and Balin gives him supportive smiles that chafe. He lives in limbo, unable to move up from his trainee position in the King’s Guard until he presents, just in case he proves to be a bearer and must be protected.

Shortly after Dwalin’s coming of age, plans begin for a huge battle against the orcs, a push that Thráin hopes will end the War. With Thorin’s interference, Dwalin is included on the roster of fighters. There hasn’t been a male bearer since the Second Age, Thorin reasons, and never among Durin’s Folk. There’s no real excuse to keep Dwalin from the battle, and every fighter counts.

In the dark, just before he falls asleep, Dwalin thinks he is being permitted to fight because an honorable death in battle is the best Fundin can expect from a damaged dwarf such as he.

Before the battle, Thráin pulls him aside. “You will protect my sons,” he demands, and Dwalin understands why the king has not protested his fighting. In response, Dwalin only nods. That he will protect Thorin and Frerin is so obvious he does not see the need for words.

But he fails, and Frerin dies. Thrain is not there to chastise him, having disappeared from the field of battle, but Dwalin blames himself in the king’s absence.

Dwalin can still smell the smoke from the prince’s funeral pyre several days later, when he feels a liquid heat low in his belly that is unfamiliar yet instantly recognizable. 

He is a bearer, and he is in heat. 

As Thorin rushes him somewhere safe, Dwalin spares a moment to think that he would rather be defective.

 

Dwalin hates his first heat, and not just because of what it means. He’s empty, so empty, and _aches_ to be filled. He’s no stranger to pain, however, and if that were the end of it Dwalin thinks he could stand the whole thing. It’s the loss of control that’s the worst, the fact that he’s so desperate for someone to take him that he would do anything— _anything_ —to get what he needs.

He has to be guarded, for the safety of others as much as his own, and Thorin’s there the whole time, not trusting his friend to anyone else. The things he says to Thorin, who’s always been like a brother, make him avoid the prince’s eyes for days once he’s in his right mind. 

For all the money and stature his family has, there’s little in the world that Dwalin counts as _his_ beyond his body. Now it’s betrayed him, and he doesn’t know what’s left. The moment his heat ends, he takes the herbs to suppress the next with a fervor that is almost religious, never forgetting what he has lost.

 

Two days after his heat ends, he receives his first courting gift from a sire, a former member of Thráin’s court. The dwarf is at least a century older than him, and one of the wealthiest in Ered Luin. Dwalin stares blankly at him until he grows uneasy and leaves without a formal response, which means Dwalin has to track him down later to return the gift as politely as he is able.

“I didn’t even know his name,” Dwalin complains to Thorin that evening as they spar.

Thorin ducks his axe before responding. “You knew he has money,” he says, panting heavily. “That would be enough for most bearers.”

Dwalin stops mid-swing. “That’s not what I want,” he growls. “He looked at me like I was something precious.”

Thorin lowers his sword, giving his friend an odd look. “You don’t want to be precious?” he asks, only partly teasing.

Seriously, Dwalin replies, “I don’t want to be a _thing_.”

 

When Dwalin thinks about it, his head hurts. Bearers must be protected, this is a conviction central to their culture. But protecting others is a belief central to his very being, and he does not know how to reconcile these thoughts.

It hurts to think about, and so he doesn’t. He just fights and people, misconceptions, and stereotypes fall before his fists. It’s not enough to earn him a place in the guard, however, and he finds most interesting careers are now closed to him.

 

Weeks pass, and Thorin has to intervene in order to get him a job. Having to rely on his friend and prince burns, but what can he do? He’s not meant for the soft work most female bearers favor. His manner’s too gruff to work in a shop, and he lacks the patience to be a scholar. Mahal knows he lacks the diplomacy for the advising Balin does. Most bearers only work until they are with child anyway, which is a fate Dwalin currently regards with horror.

Thorin can’t get him back into the King’s Guard, but he sets Dwalin to work teaching his little sister to fight. To everyone’s surprise, Dwalin is a good teacher, and quickly gains other students.

But whenever his students get good enough to be a challenge, they move on to a different teacher or stop their lessons altogether, as no one wishes to risk a bearer with advanced students. Dwalin spars with Thorin to keep in shape, but misses the joy of combat.

 

Life goes on, and the other dwarves learn to accept this odd, male bearer who insists on being treated like the warrior he was before he presented. The courting offers dry up, to be replaced with disapproving glares as it becomes clear Dwalin is not interested in marriage or children.

Once, when he’s had too much to drink, Dwalin confides in Thorin that it’s not that he’s uninterested in marriage, but he’s never met his One and he doesn’t think he will. His One would treat him as an equal, allow him to protect and be protected in equal measure, and no such dwarf exists.

Thorin never tells his friend what he confessed under the influence of alcohol, not even to tell him how very much he understands the sentiment. 

This is his life, Dwalin thinks, and can live with that, until the portents show it is time to retake Erebor, and everything changes.

\---

Bilbo’s earliest memory is one of love.

_The morning of his birthday, his mother wakes him in the early hours, just as the sun’s rays are beginning to lighten the sky. “What’re we doing up so early, Mama?” he asks, and she hushes him, glancing furtively toward his father’s closed bedroom door._

_Belladonna doesn’t answer him until they are outside, cuddled together on the bench in front of their smial. “It’s rainbow weather,” she whispers, right in his ear like the best secret she could give._

_He scrunches his nose in confusion, but before he can ask what she means the rain begins to fall. Small drops splat on Bilbo’s head, and his mother stands, pulling him into her arms and placing him firmly on her hip. “We just have to wait for the sun to rise,” she tells him._

_He gives her a quelling look he’d learned from his father. “We shouldn’t be out in the rain,” he says sternly. “We could get sick.”_

_She laughs, light and airy, and Bilbo can’t help but laugh with her. “A little water won’t hurt you,” she teases, ruffling his hair. “Bilbo, my sweet, you have to learn to dance in the rain!”_

_So they dance, his mother holding him close as she hums a jig and bounces him to and fro until he squeals with joy. And finally, she stops and turns toward the sun, and there, right before Bilbo’s eyes, is a rainbow._

_“You see, Bilbo?” Belladonna whispers, her voice raspy from laughter and song. “If you’re afraid of the rain, you’ll miss the best things in life.”_

For a long time, Bilbo believes her.

 

Bungo used to say that Bilbo was all Belladonna’s. Bilbo thought this was because he looked and acted just like his mother. He thought his father meant it as a compliment.

He thinks back, and can’t tell which stings more—his father’s comment or his own willful blindness.

 

The clues had been there for years, but Bilbo is two weeks shy of his thirtieth birthday before he understands. It’s suppertime, and his parents are fighting.

“It’s just a trip to Rivendell, not across the Misty Mountains,” Belladonna says, exasperated. “The Rangers have agreed to take me. It’s far safer than the trips I used to take.”

Bungo sets his glass down with a bit more force than necessary, and Bilbo winces. When he speaks, Bungo’s voice is flat. “And I thought those were too dangerous, as well. Not that it stopped you.”

“Why should it?” Belladonna snaps. She stands, throwing her spoon back into her bowl of stew. Bilbo stares at the brown splatter stain on the tablecloth and knows his parents have forgotten his presence.

That doesn’t prepare him to hear his even-tempered father shout, “Because I’m your husband!” He stands as well, hands on hips. “Doesn't that matter?”

Belladonna calms slightly, and bends over to scrub at the stained tablecloth. “You knew I was like this when we married,” she says querulously.

Bungo laughs, a bitter sound. “What does that matter?” he asks, and leaves. 

It’s a simple enough question, but it makes Bilbo think.

About the way his parents never even hold hands. How they sleep in different rooms. The way the neighbors whisper when they think he isn’t looking. The way everyone behaved when he presented as a sire (just like his mother, always just like his mother), warning him so strongly about the dangers of being near unbonded bearers in heat.

And, just like that, he knows. And he leaves.

Long hours pass, as he wanders the dark woods, thinking. When he feels like he can face his parents again, he returns home to find them waiting for him.

Belladonna explains. It happened at a party. Bungo hadn’t realized he was going into heat, and she was too young to stop herself from responding. Before they knew it, they were bonded with a baby on the way. Of course they got married—what else could they do?

“But don’t ever doubt that we love you,” Belladonna says. Bungo is silent.

Bilbo nods, and goes to bed. They never speak of it again.

And Bilbo decides he’ll never touch anyone unless he knows he is in love, and loved in return.

 

When Bungo dies, Bilbo mourns, but does not expect much change in his everyday life. His father spent most of his time in his study, after all.

But everything changes.

Belladonna gives up any pretense of respectability and does as she pleases. She disappears for days on end, with no explanation, or leaves a note saying, “Gone on adventure,” and is not seen for months. Bilbo imagines her flitting about Middle Earth, as if Bungo was her anchor and now she is free. Clearly, he’s not enough to keep her home. The realization is bitter, so Bilbo tries not to think of it as he rattles about Bag End alone.

One morning, he opens his door to find a courting bouquet sitting on the stoop. He stares in silent shock for longer than he likes to admit, and, leaving it there, he slams the door. It is early evening before he ventures outside to examine the flowers in detail. The bouquet is from the sweet young girl down the lane. He can’t imagine her coveting Bag End so much as to court him for it, but as they have hardly spoken he can’t imagine another reason.

When he politely returns the flowers, she cries. It’s almost enough to change his mind, but he’s seen what marriage without love can do to a family, and he can’t imagine falling for this soft, quiet little hobbit, who wouldn’t dream of arguing at the dinner table.

When he returns home, he considers the possibility that he’s entirely mad. What more could he want than a sweet, pretty hobbit who would never argue?

 _Adventure_ , is the prompt response from the Belladonna in him.

The next morning, he leaves for Bree. It’s not much of an adventure, but it’s a start.

 

Bag End sits empty more often than not in the next several years, as Bilbo and Belladonna separately adventure. Bilbo suspects his journeys are considerably tamer than hers; he never ventures further than Bree, spending time with relatives on the way. Whenever he reaches Bree, he finds a Ranger and asks after his mother, without success.

Years later, he is in Bree when he sees smoke, more smoke than could come from a cooking fire. He follows the trail, and finds a house in flames. A crowd of onlookers have accumulated, most of them clustered around a distraught woman who has to be held back from running into the fire. “My children are in there!” she cries.

In response, a small figure pelts into the house amidst shocked gasps from the crowd. They wait with bated breath, until she emerges with a toddler clinging to each side. The children run to their mother as their rescuer collapses, and Bilbo feels his world turn upside down.

Even dark with soot, he recognizes that bright brown hair. He sees it in the mirror every day.

He runs to the collapsed form of his mother, carefully turning her onto her back. Belladonna’s eyes light as she recognizes her son. “Bilbo,” she sighs as he pats out sparks on her clothing. “It’s…” The rest of her sentence is lost to coughing.

Bilbo hovers at her side, his hands fluttering as he searches his mind for something—anything—he can do to help. Her breath has a terrible, rasping rattle that cannot be good, and there is a burn on her side that is oozing dark blood. A man squats beside Belladonna, looks down her throat, and shakes his head.

“Little People aren’t made to survive this much smoke,” he says, almost apologetically. “There’s nothing I can do.”

Bilbo shoves him out of the way and falls to his knees next to his mother. “No, Mama, please,” he begs, almost hysterical.

Belladonna gulps in air, and manages a garbled word. Bilbo realizes she’s asking about the children. “They’re fine. See?” He moves behind her, propping her up so she can see the toddlers being hugged by their mother.

Belladonna smiles, and the rattling breaths slow. With that final smile for her son, she dies.

 

Bilbo goes home, and doesn’t leave again. The mere thought of adventure makes his heart seize in his chest. He’s respectable now, a true Baggins like his father. Slowly, the scandalized whispers of his neighbors cease. 

When it rains, he stays inside and watches through a window, unwilling to leave the dry house but unable to turn away. He receives two more courting bouquets and returns them immediately. Love hurts too much. He’s safer alone in his father’s study, reading books that can’t break his heart.

His life is lonely, but livable, and he expects it to stay this way the rest of his life. Perhaps it would have been so, were it not for a meddlesome wizard.


	2. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I said this would be done a long time ago. I'm so sorry.
> 
> According to the LoTR wiki, Hamfast was born the year Bilbo's dad died, so he would only be around 15 years old now. Just an FYI, 'cause I know that surprised me when I realized it.
> 
> As always, many thanks to Kookookarli, my beta, for her help!

Dwalin is, by nature, a realist. He knows there will be challenges on the road to Erebor, that pain and perhaps even death await them.

Even so, he did not expect the challenges to start before they even left.

The first sign of trouble is when he returns from a lesson to find Thorin and Balin sitting at his table. They fall silent the moment he enters, watching him with oddly similar cautious expressions. Dwalin carefully hangs his axes on the wall before he speaks. “Will you tell me what’s going on, or should I guess?” He tries to keep his voice expressionless, but some bitterness sneaks through. He knows what they’re going to say, and he hadn’t expected it, not from his brother and his best friend. Not from his king.

Balin clears his throat. “Some of the others have expressed concerns,” he says, picking his words with care. “They find it… alarming that, of all dwarves, we are taking the only male bearer on such a journey as this.”

Ignoring his brother, Dwalin throws himself into a seat, his gaze on Thorin. “Do you think I will be a hindrance to the company?” he asks, deliberately blunt.

Thorin meets his eyes without blinking. “You are one of the best fighters I know,” he replies, his voice low. “But there are those who will not travel in close quarters with an unbound bearer. What if you run out of your herbs and go into heat? What if the company has to choose between your safety and that of the company as a whole?”

Dwalin moves his hands under the table, where no one can see him clench them into fists. “I would die before I become a burden,” he spits out. “If I go into heat, leave me. I’ll catch up later. Command the company to regard my safety as no more important than anyone else’s—unless you are afraid they will not listen to you?” It’s a low blow, and Dwalin knows it, but he does not care. He leans forward, holding out his hands in entreaty. “I was charged with protecting you and your brother,” he murmurs, and Thorin takes a sharp breath. “I failed Frerin. Please, do not force me to fail again.”

Thorin studies Dwalin in silence, as long moments pass. Balin is shifting uncomfortably in the charged atmosphere when Thorin finally speaks. “You realize that I cannot force the company to treat you as they would treat a sire?”

Dwalin nods. He’s been regarded as something other his entire adult life; he can live with that. Thorin nods in return. “Very well.”

“But—“ Balin starts, and Dwalin kicks his leg under the table. He knows what his brother would say. In many ways, Thorin is taking a risk by accepting a bearer into the company, but Dwalin does not care. The glare he gives Balin says as much. Balin falls silent, rolling his eyes, and Thorin pretends not to notice anything.

 

Dwalin is not privy to the planning meetings held by his brother and Thorin. He doesn’t know who will accompany them, other than Gandalf, and he does not care.

Well. That is not entirely true.

Dwalin has little curiosity about the other dwarves. He can predict who will join them, at least in part: Fíli and Kíli, because they will not be left behind, and Óin and Glóin because they remain painfully loyal to Thorin. He suspects it was the latter pair that expressed concerns about traveling with a bearer, but he does not know for certain. It matters little. They will learn, in time. Dwalin is confident he can prove his worth.

No, he cares little about the other dwarves. However, the same cannot be said about their burglar. 

The first time he hears about this addition to the company is the day before Thorin is to leave for a meeting with Dáin. Thorin arrives at Dwalin’s door with a mighty scowl in place, and doesn’t speak until he’s ensconced before the fire with ale in hand. “Gandalf has someone he wishes to join us,” Thorin says, abrupt in the quiet. “A hobbit.” He laughs mirthlessly. “Soft, weak, little creatures, known more for the size of their bellies than any courage they may possess.”

Dwalin knows next to nothing about hobbits. He’s seen them from a distance as he crosses the edge of the Shire, and they did appear to be round little creatures, fond of their comforts. Still, Thorin’s words sting. “The same could be said of bearers, more or less,” Dwalin comments. He studies the fire in order to avoid his friend’s surprised gaze. “Perhaps this hobbit will surprise you.”

Thorin does not reply; after a long silence, the subject changes to his upcoming trip. When he leaves, hours later, he is much calmer, though anger hovers in the stiff set of his shoulders. Dwalin sees him out, and settles back by the fire’s dying embers, thinking back on the hobbit that will be joining their company.

He understands Thorin’s point of view, perhaps better than the king himself does. Their past has taught them to be wary of strangers, and while Dwalin was never the best student of history, he thinks he would have remembered if hobbits featured in any of the great battles. As a group, hobbits are not impressive, not by dwarvish reckoning.

And yet.

This friend of Gandalf’s (and it says something, does it not, for a hobbit to be a friend of a wizard?) is willing to leave the comfort and safety of the Shire for a mission against a dragon. He certainly does not do so for the sake of the dwarves. Perhaps he is repaying a favor owed. Perhaps he acts in the name of friendship, nothing more.

Perhaps he, like Dwalin, chafes at the strictures of his society. Perhaps he longs for a fight, for adventure.

Dwalin does not know, but he wonders.

 

The day they are to gather at the burglar’s, Dwalin finds himself staring at the green door long before nightfall. As Gandalf had told them not to arrive before dusk, he is uncertain what to do with himself. He doesn’t want to irritate their host by arriving early—Thorin may be uneasy with Gandalf’s choice in this matter, but that does not mean he would forgive Dwalin for setting the hobbit against them all before they even meet.

Dwalin turns toward the nearby trees, planning to wander the forest for a bit, when he feels a tug on his arm. Glancing down, he encounters a hobbit with bright blond hair and dark brown eyes. He doesn’t know much about the creatures, but this one does not appear full-grown.

“Who’re you?” the hobbit asks, studying him curiously.

Dwalin briefly considers leaving without a response, then gives a mental shrug. There’s no need to be rude. “Dwalin, at your service,” he replies. “And who are you?”

The hobbit laughs, bright and cheerful. “That’s a funny name!” he announces. “I’m Hamfast Gamgee.” He stands as tall as he can, craning his neck to look Dwalin in the eyes. “Why are you staring at Mister Bilbo’s smial?”

“I wasn’t staring,” Dwalin retorted, and grimaced to realize he sounded as young as Hamfast in his indignation. “You know Master Baggins, then?” he asked.

“Of course,” Hamfast said loftily. “My dad does his gardening. He’s teaching me my letters!” In the rapid manner of children, he jumps to a different topic of conversation. “Are those axes on your back?” He scampers behind Dwalin for a better look, but Dwalin turns with him, not wanting the young hobbit to try to touch one. He’s reasonably certain the child is too small to reach the sharp edges, but doesn’t want to test the assumption.

“Aye, and a hammer,” he agrees. 

Hamfast’s face lights up. “Do you know how to fight? Can you teach me?” he asks, speaking so quickly his words jumble together.

Dwalin is about to refuse, but something stops him. Maybe it’s the fact that he has nothing else to do. Maybe it’s the open hope on the young hobbit’s face. Maybe it’s the fact that he misses teaching, and won’t get to do much of it for the foreseeable future. At any rate, he shrugs. “Know of a place where we will not be bothered?”

 

In a forest clearing, Dwalin runs the hobbit through the basics of blocking. Hamfast is too small to lift even Dwalin’s smallest axe, so they work with sticks. In between curt orders, Dwalin carefully directs Hamfast’s excited chatter toward Bilbo Baggins. It’s easy enough; Hamfast appears to adore the older hobbit.

“Mister Bilbo is the smartest hobbit there ever was!” Hamfast exclaims, as Dwalin ducks an over-exuberant swing. “He tells the best stories, and he never minds when I come over to visit.” Hamfast lowers his stick, his face troubled. “Sometimes I think he’s lonely. Can you imagine, no parents and no brothers or sisters?” The hobbit’s voice clearly says that he finds this beyond comprehension.

“Bend your elbows a bit when you hold the stick,” Dwalin instructs, holding a stick to demonstrate. Once Hamfast’s posture is a bit better, he prompts, “Master Baggins has no parents?”

“Oh, they’re dead,” Hamfast replies. “I remember when his mother died, because everybody was talking about it. She saved some children in Bree from a fire. Everybody says Mister Bilbo used to be just like his mother, but he’s gotten respectable.” From Hamfast’s tone, Dwalin guesses he’s quoting now. Hamfast sets down his stick, and gives Dwalin a serious look. “They say it’s better that way, but sometimes his face is awfully sad when he doesn’t think I’m looking. Are you going to be his friend?”

Dwalin blinks, realizing he hadn’t been as subtle as he thought. “Hope so,” he replies, his voice gruff.

Hamfast nods, solemn. “Good. He needs a friend.” He squints at the rapidly darkening sky, and drops his stick. “I got to go! My mum’ll be searching for me soon.” He dashes off, calling over his shoulder, “Thanks, Mister Dwalin!”

Dwalin leans against a nearby tree, letting the growing darkness wash over him. When he decides it must be late enough, he heads off to meet Bilbo Baggins.

 

Dwalin hasn’t formed any mental image of Bilbo Baggins, and yet the hobbit that opens the green door, staring at him with big, bewildered eyes, is not what he expected. He bows automatically, wondering what he had imagined. A bit more formal-looking, certainly, since he hadn’t thought the hobbit would be wearing a robe. Some armor, perhaps, though he wasn’t sure where that idea came from, as he had never seen a hobbit with any sort of protective garb.

The hobbit looks almost as if he is afraid of Dwalin. Since he’s presented as a bearer, he isn’t generally feared. For once, he feels a bit guilty about the pains he takes to cultivate an intimidating visage. He doesn’t want this hobbit to fear him.

“Dwalin, at your service,” he says, and the hobbit’s eyes, if possible, get even bigger.

A long moment passes before he gets a response. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours.” Since an invitation doesn’t seem forthcoming, Dwalin moves inside, shouldering past the hobbit. “Do we know each other?” he squeaks, and Dwalin gives him an odd look at the question.

“No.”

The hobbit seems nervous, so Dwalin decides to skip the pleasantries, which usually make him more uneasy, at least. Maybe the hobbit will calm down once they’re both eating. He follows his nose to the food, calling over his shoulder to confirm he’s headed in the right direction, and eats.

The hobbit sits and watches him. Dwalin has had many watchers over the years, but Master Baggins doesn’t look covetous of anything but his food. He shows more of a simple curiosity, perhaps, overlaid with that same fear.

Somehow, Dwalin finds it hard to take. He breaks the silence to ask for more food, and after he’s taken a roll, can’t help but ask, “Why aren’t you eating?”

Those big eyes blink at him. “What?”

Dwalin swallows his food, takes a sip of ale, and tries again. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“Me? Eat? Oh.” The hobbit laughs nervously. “I’m… I’m not hungry.” As if to argue the statement, his stomach growls. Dwalin watches in fascination as the hobbit’s hands flutter, gesturing half-heartedly, before settling over his belly. “Well, what could I eat?” he asks, suddenly spirited. “You ate my supper.”

Dwalin likes this version of the hobbit, with fire in his eyes. It’s an odd sensation for a dwarf not accustomed to being fond of anyone who isn’t kin. He has a sudden urge to place a hand over Master Baggins’ fingers, which are still twitching; this surprises him so that he takes a long moment to process the hobbit’s words. “Your supper,” he echoes blankly. “You don’t mean that’s all you have?” He frowns.

The hobbit mirrors his expression, placing his hands on his hips. “And why should I have anything else ready? That was a perfectly respectable meal for a hobbit.”

Dwalin nods, because that is true. “What about the others? He said there’d be food.”

Master Baggins jumps to his feet in agitation. “Who’s ‘he’? Who are the others? Why are you even here?”

Dwalin puts down the last roll and stares. “You truly don’t know?” Does he have the day wrong? Thorin is going to throttle him. “The mark was on the door,” he mutters to himself. To Master Baggins, he adds, “The company is meeting here tonight.”

The hobbit stamps his foot. “All I know is that a dwarf is in my house and ate my supper.” With some effort, he calms himself. “What mark? What company?”

Leaning back in his chair, Dwalin thinks before he answers. “At least that explains the robe,” he mumbles, not quietly enough to keep from being overheard.

“And what is wrong with my robe?” Master Baggins demands, plucking at the fabric. “This was my father’s, I’ll have you know.” He glares at Dwalin. “Perhaps this wouldn’t have been my choice in attire had I known I would be entertaining, but-- No, no, no, this is not the point. Who is the company?”

Dwalin looks away to hide a smile. He can’t help but find the hobbit’s ranting oddly endearing. He feels like he has just been reprimanded by a bunny rabbit. “Hasn’t Gandalf told you anything?” he asks.

The fire leaves the hobbit’s eyes, and he drops back into his seat. “Gandalf,” he sighs. “Of course this has to do with Gandalf.” He looks back at Dwalin, lifting his chin at a mulish angle. “You’re going on an adventure, I suppose?”

“Aye. With you.” He adds the last bit knowing it will provoke another tirade, and he is not disappointed.

“Oh, no! There will be no adventure here. Not for me. I told Gandalf as much, and sent him on his way, and how many dwarves will be showing up tonight expecting food?”

This last turn in the conversation catches Dwalin by surprise. He grins in appreciation—it isn’t often anyone surprises him. “Not sure,” he replies. A bit sourly, he adds, “They don’t keep me much informed.” 

For the first time, it occurs to him to wonder if the hobbit can even sense that he’s a bearer. Master Baggins is a sire, Dwalin recognized that as soon as he saw him, and yet the hobbit isn’t behaving as sires usually do. He’s treating Dwalin like another sire, as if they’re the same. Now that he has noticed, he can’t understand it.

As he is thinking, Dwalin misses the beginning of the hobbit’s reply, focusing in time to hear, “…nothing else for it. And don't think you’re getting out of helping!”

The next thing he knows, Dwalin’s being ushered into the kitchen and put to work mixing a salad. He puts up with it only because he’s somehow certain this has nothing to do with him being a bearer. He regards the greens with contempt. “No one will eat this,” he warns.

“Yes, they will,” Master Baggins says grimly, and Dwalin shrugs, deciding not to argue. Maybe Gandalf will.

He’s so busy working that he doesn’t hear the door. His first warning of a new arrival is the sound of his brother’s voice. “Evening, brother! Making yourself useful for once, I see!”

Dwalin drops the knife he’s using to cut the tomatoes, and spins to face Balin. “I’m always useful,” he retorts. “You should try it sometime.” Grinning, the brothers approach each other until they are close enough to smack their heads in greeting.

“No food ready?” Balin asks, glancing around. “I’ll fix that.” He vanishes into the pantry without another word, and the doorbell rings once more. Looking a bit harassed, Master Baggins leaves to answer it.

Before long, the kitchen is swarming with dwarves, and the lone hobbit is running between them like an overexcited puppy. Dwalin can’t help but feel for him—this may be a typical dwarf gathering, but he has the feeling that hobbits behave quite a bit differently. He is about to say something (hopefully) reassuring, when the dwarves gather at the table and begin to eat, and he joins them, leaving the hobbit in peace.

After supper has ended and the dwarves are cleaning up, Master Baggins resumes his running about. He seems panicked that they will ruin his things, and when Bofur and Kíli start singing about blunting the knives his expression of frustration is so heartrending that Dwalin makes his way to his side. “They won’t damage anything,” he says, with all the assurance he can muster. “Try to relax.”

Master Baggins is about to respond, when the singing stops and they hear a knock at the door. All eyes turn to Gandalf, who says solemnly, “He is here.”

Dwalin sighs, only partly in relief. He hopes Thorin manages to curb the harshness of his tongue. He rather likes the hobbit, fussiness and all, even if he can’t explain why, and he would prefer Thorin not insult him too greatly.

Of course, that may be too much to ask.


	3. Delicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is un-betaed, so let me know if you see any egregious errors.

The moment Thorin steps through the entrance of the hobbit hole, Dwalin can tell the meeting with their kin did not go as planned. Thorin’s bearing is as regal as ever, but there is a slightly uncertain look in his eyes, visible to those who know him best.

It’s the only reason Dwalin keeps silent when Thorin calls the hobbit a grocer and then turns his back, dismissing Master Baggins without further commentary. He knows Thorin, knows there is no reasoning with him when he’s in such a mood, and so Dwalin decides to wait. He can be patient, even if he doesn’t much enjoy it.

Of course, Thorin barely gets a spoonful of stew before the others are asking about his meeting. To Dwalin’s surprise, his brother is the one to raise the subject. He would have thought Balin would have read the answer off the king’s face much as Dwalin himself has, but it would appear not. Perhaps Balin no longer looks for such signs, knowing that Thorin will provide him with a straight answer even on subjects he deems too sensitive for Dwalin.

Such pondering aids nothing, Dwalin chides himself, and returns to the matter at hand. With an internal sigh, he asks a question to which he already knows the answer. “And what do the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dáin with us?”

Thorin meets his gaze for only a moment before looking away. “They will not come,” he quietly admits, and the company murmurs in dismay. Dwalin tunes out the explanation of Dáin’s reasons, seeing no point in listening to pretty justifications for the cold truth of the matter: Dáin is afraid.

The ensuing discussion goes about as Dwalin expects, if not as he had hoped. He remains silent, knowing most of the others would not care to hear his opinions, and focuses his energy on listening. Thus, he is the only one to hear the murmured conversation between Gandalf and Thorin, in which they agree that the safety of Master Baggins cannot be guaranteed. For some reason, their easy acceptance of this fact aches somewhere in Dwalin’s chest, and he stands from his chair, roughly shouldering past the wizard to stand beside the hobbit as he looks over the contract.

“Think furnace with wings,” Bofur is saying, remarkably unhelpful, as Master Baggins tries to regulate his breathing.

“That’s enough,” Dwalin says lowly to Bofur, reaching out to place a hand on the hobbit’s arm. To Master Baggins, he adds, “Are you alright?”

The hobbit mumbles something about needing air as Bofur, winking at Dwalin, continues, going into great detail about process of incineration. “I said that’s enough,” Dwalin snaps, taking a step toward the miner, who subsides with a grin, not remotely threatened.

Dwalin turns back just in time to catch Master Baggins as he faints. Arms full of hobbit, he glares at Bofur. “Was that truly necessary?” he asks, irritated.

Bofur stares back, seeming fascinated that he would choose to protect their prospective burglar. “It was just a bit of fun,” he replies, still grinning. Raising a sardonic eyebrow, he adds, “My apologies for upsetting your delicate sensibilities.”

Dwalin stiffens at the familiar insult. “I assure you, Master Bofur, I am anything but delicate,” he spits. 

Recognizing the danger in his voice, Thorin rises to intervene. “I believe there is a chair in the next room where the hobbit would be comfortable,” he says, framing the order as a suggestion.

Dwalin pauses, studying the company clustered around the table, and realizes that they have all taken his rush to aid Master Baggins as confirmation that he possesses the sort of soft impulses that have no place on this quest. Even Thorin’s gaze is tinged with impatience, if not the gentle contempt he finds in the eyes of many of the others.

Dwalin does not know how to respond, what to say to regain the ground he has just lost, and so he leaves, carrying the hobbit away.

 

In the next room, Dwalin finds a sofa, where he carefully places Master Baggins, and sinks into a nearby chair. The low hum of voices tells him conversation has restarted among the company, but he feels no desire to head back and join them. Lost in thought, he jumps at the sound of a deep voice beside him.

“I did not expect to see you on this quest.” Gandalf’s observation is mild, and as he sits in the chair beside Dwalin his face shows nothing but simple curiosity.

“No one did,” Dwalin replies, with more bitterness than he intended.

Gandalf grunts, distractedly, as he pulls out his pipe and lights it with a snap of his fingers. Once it is lit, he turns his attention back to Dwalin. “I should have known better.”

That is not what Dwalin had expected to hear. “And why is that?” he asks cautiously, uncertain if he is being set up for a fall. He does not know Gandalf well—they have only spoken once before—and he cannot tell if the wizard is speaking in jest.

“You are a warrior,” Gandalf observes. “One with a heart.” He leans forward, pointing his pipe at Dwalin. “There are those who fight for duty, those who fight for honor, and those who fight for love. You will find, Dwalin, son of Fundin, that there is no one fiercer than a bearer protecting his loved ones.”

Dwalin does not know how to respond, so it is just as well that Master Baggins chooses then to awaken with a groan. He cracks an eye open, and tenses when he sees them. “It wasn’t a dream,” he sighs.

“Not at all,” Gandalf agrees, laughter lurking in his voice. “Master Dwalin, would you mind giving us a moment? I would like to speak with Bilbo.”

Dwalin stands, and hesitates, looking at the hobbit. “Is that alright with you, Master Baggins?” he asks, because now that he’s started protecting him, he doesn’t quite know how to stop.

The hobbit nods tiredly, and Dwalin heads back into the dining room, where his return goes unnoticed. Suddenly sick of everyone, he finds the door leading to the garden, and strides outside to sulk.

Out in the moonlight, he tries to regain his equilibrium. So they think him delicate; he’s been called worse. Once they are on their way, he will prove his worth in the first skirmish.

The sound of the door interrupts his thoughts, and he turns to see the hobbit slip outside. With a surprisingly quiet tread, he makes his way to Dwalin. For a moment, they regard each other in silence.

“I wanted to thank you,” Master Baggins says, after seeming to look his fill. “Gandalf said you kept me from landing right on my nose, earlier.”

Dwalin looks away. “’Twas nothing, Master Baggins,” he responds, a bit uncomfortable under the steady gaze. “I’m just glad I was close enough to reach you in time.”

“Please, call me Bilbo,” Master— _Bilbo_ invites, smiling faintly. He tilts his head, studying Dwalin so closely the dwarf has to fight the urge to back away.

The scrutiny, so unlike the looks he receives from his fellow dwarves, unnerves Dwalin enough that he decides to change the subject. “Will you be signing the contract?” he asks.

The distraction works. Bilbo looks away, his expression taking on a regretful cast. He shakes his head. “I’m no burglar,” he mutters. “You have the wrong hobbit.”

Disappointment washes over Dwalin, sharp and strong, and he knows he has not kept it from showing when the hobbit glances back at him, eyes widening. His feelings bare, he decides he may as well speak his piece.

“You feared me, when I arrived, and yet you took me to task over your supper. You had the temerity to jest in response to Thorin—whatever conkers are, anyway—and you are the friend of a wizard. You cannot fight, perhaps not even fend for yourself, ‘tis true, and that worries me, but you have spirit, and that’s a start. The rest can be learned.” Almost to himself, Dwalin adds, “You deserve a chance to prove yourself, the same as anyone else.”

His words seem to have struck Bilbo speechless—the hobbit stares silently long enough that Dwalin grows uncomfortable. “Do what you will,” he says gruffly, and flees back inside.

He quickly makes his way to where Thorin and Balin stand. Their conversation comes to an abrupt halt as he approaches, with both dwarves staring curiously. Dwalin divides his glare between them both as he takes position standing beside Thorin. “Say what you have to say and be done with it,” he grunts, crossing his arms.

Neither of them look intimidated. At a glance from Thorin, Balin begins. “You seem to be fond of the hobbit, brother. What happened before I arrived?”

“Nothing,” Dwalin replies, quick and defensive.

Thorin raises an eyebrow. “You caught him as if he were a swooning elf maiden,” he comments, as if Dwalin needs the reminder.

Dwalin frowns. “I was standing right there. Was I to let him fall?”

“And why were you standing there?” Balin presses. “Perhaps because you felt concerned about his reaction to the contract?”

“And what is wrong with concern?” Dwalin hisses. “Is it too _delicate_ for you?” Thorin and Balin lean back, surprised by his bitterness, and Dwalin continues before they can reply. “Must my every action prove my place in your company? Can you not trust me as I do you?”

He leaves before they answer. He does not want to know what they would say.

 

After Dwalin has left the garden, Bilbo leans against the wall of the smial and fumbles for his pipe. The familiar ceremony of packing and lighting the pipe help calm his thoughts, even if it cannot provide answers to his questions.

The disapproval of the dwarves is oddly familiar, if Bilbo is honest. Only in recent years, with his increased respectability, has the Shire begun to approve of him. Huffing a silent laugh, Bilbo allows himself a moment of imagining Thorin Oakenshield and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins discussing their mutual disdain, before his thoughts return to the dwarf that had just left his presence.

Disapproval is nothing new to Bilbo, but it has been many long years since someone has encouraged him, Gandalf notwithstanding. He doesn’t understand why Dwalin wants him along and he certainly doesn’t understand why something in his chest aches at the thought of disappointing a dwarf he’s known for mere hours.

Objectively speaking, Dwalin is one of the most frightening-looking dwarves of them all (second only to the one with an axe in his head), and yet, there’s something soft in his eyes when he looks at Bilbo. He looks at the hobbit as if he _understands _, though what he comprehends is beyond Bilbo’s ken.__

And something about him calls to Bilbo in a way no bearer ever has. Standing together in the moonlight as Dwalin spoke of opportunities to prove himself, Bilbo had wanted to lay a hand on one of those broad forearms in silent comfort, to feel the living heat of the dwarf under his palm. For that moment in the dark, Bilbo had _wanted_ , and it frightens him even as it sends tingles of awareness down to his toes. 

__The low rumble of song drifts out of the smial, and Bilbo hugs himself as he listens to the dwarves sing of their homeland. Even if he returns, he will not be the same, he reminds himself. Gandalf said as much. And he could not return at all._ _

__Just like his mother._ _

__The song continues, and Bilbo can feel the air pressing against him, life thrumming through his veins as it hasn’t in years. He knows what his mother would do if presented with such an opportunity, and suddenly he knows what he will do, as well._ _

__A smile pulls at his lips, as he returns to the warmth inside the smial. He quickly finds and signs his contract, but he waits until the dwarves have finished singing before he approaches their leader._ _

__“What is it, hobbit?” Thorin asks, neither precisely polite nor overtly rude. In response, Bilbo hands him the contract, waiting patiently while Thorin examines his signature with a blank expression. After a long moment, he hands it over to the white-haired dwarf beside him, and inclines his head at Bilbo. “Welcome to the company, Bilbo Baggins.”_ _

__Over Thorin’s shoulder, Bilbo meets Dwalin’s eyes, and the dwarf nods at him, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Bilbo returns the nod, standing a bit taller, thinking maybe, just maybe, he can do this after all._ _

__

__The next morning, Bilbo struggles to remember that feeling of confidence as he bounces gracelessly on a horse, listening to the dwarves’ raucous conversations around him. Gandalf rides beside him for some time, but eventually he has to move to the front of the caravan to confer with Thorin. Expecting a bit of solitude, Bilbo is surprised when Balin maneuvers his horse to ride next to him._ _

__“How are you feeling?” he asks, in what seems to be honest concern. “You had a bit of a shock yesterday, I reckon.”_ _

__Bilbo manages a small smile. “Yes, well, thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and the news of possible incineration in my future was a bit overwhelming, I suppose, but I am quite well now, thank you.”_ _

__Balin nods, and they ride in silence for several moments before he changes the subject. “Tell me, lad, what would you like to know?” He laughs at Bilbo’s expression of surprise. “You watch us with such curiosity, did you think we wouldn’t notice?”_ _

__Bilbo blushes, appalled that he had been so obvious. “My apologies,” he stuttered. “I do not mean to stare. I simply have little experience with dwarves. There were never many in Bree, you see, and I have not travelled any further.”_ _

__Balin holds up a hand, smiling. “Do not fret, Master Hobbit. You have caused no offense. If I were traveling with a company of hobbits, I would be curious as well.”_ _

__The reassurance helps Bilbo to relax a bit, and he can’t help but ask a question. “Are you all related?” There is such camaraderie between the dwarves, he wouldn’t be surprised if most were kin._ _

__“Not all,” Balin replies, unfazed by the question. “But no one travels alone. Bombur and Bofur are brothers, and Bifur is their cousin. Dori, Nori and Ori are brothers, of course. The rest of us are all cousins: the brothers Óin and Glóin, Thorin and the princes, and myself and Dwalin.”_ _

__As he names each dwarf, he gestures in his direction, Bilbo’s gaze bouncing about accordingly until it ends on Dwalin, stolidly riding at the rear. Their eyes meet for a long moment and Bilbo quite forgets to look away until Balin coughs politely. Feeling caught out, Bilbo blurts, “You and Master Dwalin seem very different, for brothers.” Once the words have left his mouth, he winces. “How rude of me! I am terribly sorry!”_ _

__Balin simply chuckles, unoffended. “Don’t apologize, lad, it’s quite true. My brother has always been more interested in physical pursuits, while I have been groomed to be a royal advisor since I was a wee dwarfling. Dwalin even wanted to join the King’s Guard, though of course that wasn’t possible in the end.”_ _

__Bilbo leans a bit closer, fascinated, and almost falls off his horse. Once he’s firmly seated once more, he asks, “Why not?”_ _

__Balin blinks. “Why not?” he echoes, surprised, and glances around uneasily. Quietly, as if afraid of being overheard, he states, “Why, he’s a bearer.”_ _

__Bilbo nods, waiting for the rest of the reason. When nothing else seems forthcoming, he prompts, “And?”_ _

__“And?” Balin echoes once more. Staring at Bilbo as if he is more than a bit slow, Balin says slowly, “And bearers cannot be in the guard.”_ _

__It’s Bilbo’s turn to stare. “Just because they’re bearers?” he asks, incredulous. “But that’s absurd! If Lobelia Sackville-Baggins heard you saying she couldn’t do something merely because she is a bearer, you would find yourself eating your boot! And my great grand-uncle, Bullroarer Took, why, if he were alive he would do something altogether unpleasant, I assure you!” In a state of pique, he tries to fold his arms and gets them tangled in the horse’s reins. By the time he is untangled, he has calmed enough to speak without accusation, only to realize half the company has turned to stare at his outburst._ _

__“You have an uncle named Bullroarer?” Kíli calls from his place up the line. “Why’s he doing something unpleasant to Balin?”_ _

__“Never you mind!” Bilbo shouts, and gives Balin an apologetic look. Lowering his voice, he murmurs, “I am sorry. It’s just that I’ve never heard of such a thing.”_ _

__Balin does not look insulted; in fact, he looks intrigued. He waves off the apology. “I expect it’s not the last cultural difference we will uncover,” he comments. “And I daresay my brother would find your views quite refreshing.”_ _

__Unable to stop himself, Bilbo twists back to glance at Dwalin once more. When he turns himself back around, Balin winks at him._ _

__And Bilbo blushes._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think Bofur meant anything by what he said? It's possible Dwalin is a bit oversensitive to these sorts of slights.


	4. Little Known Facts About Trolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay in this. I'm participating in the [Hobbit Big Bang](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com/) on LJ, and I've been working on my fic for that. Also, I was hesitant to post this chapter, as I think some people will dislike it, for perfectly understandable reasons. However, this is the way I intended for the trolls to be handled since I started the fic, and so in the end I decided to leave it as is. I really hope you enjoy!
> 
> Oh, also--I could not think of a clever term for betas in this fic, so they're just known as regular male/female men/dwarves/hobbits/trolls/etc. If anyone can come up with a better idea for that, I'd be happy to change it!
> 
> I almost forgot! Many thanks to Kookookarli, my beta, for her help!

As they begin their travels, Dwalin finds that he is not the only one who doesn’t fit in. For all his charm—and the hobbit is an engaging creature, to be sure—Bilbo is not a dwarf. He doesn’t know their customs and doesn’t speak their language, and, though he has traveled before, is not accustomed to the rougher ways of life.

But Bilbo makes friends among the company as they journey on, with an ease that Dwalin’s never found. From the first day, Ori rides with him, nagging the hobbit for details of his culture. Fili and Kili find great amusement in teasing Bilbo when they have the opportunity, and his sharp humor finds a fan in Bofur. Balin talks to Bilbo occasionally, as well, and Dwalin has the unpleasant feeling they talk about him.

As for Dwalin, he keeps his distance. Still, he can’t help but look, and sometimes he catches Bilbo looking back.

It’s unsurprising, then, that Dwalin notices when Bilbo goes to take Fili and Kili their supper the night they make camp by an abandoned farmhouse. Absorbed in observing the hobbit disappear into the trees, he doesn’t notice Thorin’s approach until his friend and king speaks.

“I’ve never seen you watch anyone so closely before,” Thorin observed, his voice pitched low.

Dwalin hopes his beard hides the blush he can feel in his cheeks. He considers, and discards, the notion of playing dumb. “I’m not distracted,” he snaps.

Thorin’s eyes widen, then narrow. “I did not say you were,” he slowly replies. “However, I think it a waste to spare the halfling any mind at all.”

“Aye, you’ve made your opinion of the hobbit quite clear,” Dwalin observes, giving his friend a reproving look. “Someone needs to look out for him.”

“Of course,” Thorin agrees, though Dwalin can tell he doesn’t truly mean what he says. His sharp blue eyes pierce Dwalin to the quick. “And that is why you watch so closely—you are simply ensuring the halfling’s safety?”

Thorin is offering him an excuse, and there is part of Dwalin that wants to take it. In the end, however, he opts for the truth, as Dwalin is not the sort to lie to his king. “No,” he grunts, folding his arms across his chest.

Thorin looks unsurprised, resigned to this response. “Then why?”

Dwalin is saved from a reply by Fili and Kili bursting into the clearing. They speak at the same time, making it difficult to understand either, but Dwalin can make out “Bilbo” and “trolls”.

He stalks over to the princes, seizing both by the scruffs of their necks, and they quiet instantly. “Where?” he barks. Kili points, and he drops both dwarves, seizes his axe, and runs.

He is not prepared for what he finds.

 

Dwalin slows his pace as he hears the rumble of troll voices, sneaking to the edge of their clearing as quietly as he knows how. With careful movements, he pushes aside a branch and peers out at the trolls for a moment.

Bilbo is before him, covered in something disgusting and dangling from the hand of one of the trolls. Dwalin allows himself a frustrated huff, before he separates the stench of troll into something recognizable, and his eyes widen in surprise.

The only sire here is Bilbo. He’s watching the hobbit hang upside down and talk with two bearers and a regular male troll. Dwalin cannot imagine a time in which two male bearers would be allowed to travel with only one protector--the notion is unthinkable. He is so shocked by his realization that their conversation takes a moment to register.

“‘E’s not worth eating, Bill,” one of the bearers is complaining. “Just let ‘im go.”

“Yeah, let ‘im go, Bill!” the other bearer chimes in. He leans closer, peering at Bilbo, and the hobbit tries to move away. “Poor little blighter.”

“There could be more burrahobbits around,” Bill argues, even as he drops Bilbo to the ground. “We could make a pie!”

Bilbo curls onto his side, gasping for breath, and the trolls continue to argue as Dwalin thinks furiously. A battle against three trolls is not to his liking. As he learned when Erebor fell, Dwalin prefers enemies that can’t literally squash him. Perhaps he could—

But that’s as far as he gets before a battle cry echoes through the forest, and then Kili flies into the clearing, eagerly swinging a sword at the trolls. The rest of the company is not far behind. Dwalin spares a moment to swear inventively in Khuzdul before joining the fight.

For a moment, it seems as if their ambush might work. These trolls are, thankfully, not accustomed to battle. Bill trips over Bofur, falling to his knees with a crash that shakes the entire clearing, and while the troll is down Dwalin lands a solid blow that crushes most of his teeth. He should have finished Bill while he had the chance, but Bilbo still has not moved. Concerned, Dwalin runs to Bilbo’s crumpled form and hauls the hobbit to his feet. He receives a quick flash of a smile for his efforts, before Bilbo dashes off in the direction of the ponies.

The hobbit is fast, too quick for Dwalin to follow, but when Bilbo stops to free the ponies one of the trolls snatches him from the ground. With an odd, rushing sound in his ears, Dwalin once more breaks into a run, but he manages only two steps before the two bearers have Bilbo positioned between them.

“Bilbo!” Kili shouts, lunging forward before Thorin pulls him back. 

Dwalin says nothing. He can’t quite remember how to form words. Bilbo looks so fragile, he thinks dazedly. Like a flower plucked from the ground. So easy to crush.

And there’s _nothing_ Dwalin can do to protect him.

“Lay down your arms,” one of the trolls growls gleefully. “Or we’ll rip his off!”

Dwalin’s axe clatters to the ground without his conscious volition. At any other time, he would be appalled by such easy capitulation, but fear has its claws in his heart, leaving rational thought behind.

Dwalin barely recognizes himself, and from the look he receives from Thorin, neither does his king.

The other dwarves are frozen, waiting for a sign from their leader. Scowling mightily, Thorin plants his sword in the ground. With varying degrees of willingness, the others follow suit.

In short order, the company finds themselves stuffed into bags and either roasting on a spit or in a pile waiting their turn to roast. Dwalin can’t manage much concern over his own predicament; he’s too preoccupied by the utter relief he feels that Bilbo still has a chance to escape.

Of course, rather than doing something reasonable, like hopping off to safety, Bilbo jumps to his feet and cries out to the trolls in a surprisingly strong voice. “Wait! You are making a terrible mistake.”

As he spins on the spit, Dwalin catches a glimpse of Bilbo, seeming taller than his diminutive stature, staring down the trolls with fire in his eyes. It should look ridiculous--Bilbo is only a little hobbit, after all--and yet his voice is so commanding that Dwalin feels something deep inside him yearn to respond.

None of the other dwarves seem as affected, but the two trolls who are bearers shift uncomfortably, and one reaches out to stop the spit from rotating. 

“What are you doing, Tom?” Bill grunts.

“‘E says to wait!” Tom snarls, waving a hand at Bilbo.

“Why’re you listening to ‘im?” Bill sounds honestly confused. 

“B-B-Because,” Bilbo stutters, but gains confidence as he goes, “because I say so.” His voice regains that commanding tone, and Dwalin listens so closely he scarcely remembers to breathe. “You don’t really want to cook them.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “Have you smelled this lot? Not what you want to be tasting, I assure you. And they’re naught but skin and bones! Well, mostly, anyway. It’s a lot of effort for nothing. I would think poorly of a troll that ate such a meal, I truly would.”

There’s a long pause, while the trolls think about what Bilbo said, and Dwalin recalls an unwelcome lesson he’d once had on trolls.

_“Not much is known of troll society, if there is such a thing,” Balin lectured young Dwalin, who rolled his eyes in despair. “Troll sires hold a place of prominence in any gathering, and bearers are groomed to be utterly subservient to their whims. However, as sires are scarce, most work is carried out by regular trolls. Just as bearers are groomed to defer to sires, regular trolls are taught to cater to a bearer’s every whim, as bearers are necessary to carry life.” Here, Balin looked up and wrinkled his nose. “I’m certain you can see the importance of this knowledge.”_

_Dwalin did not see the importance in any of this. He lived in Erebor--when was he going to have to deal with trolls? “Balin,” he complained, “I don’t think this is what our father had in mind when he told you to watch me.”_

“Utterly subservient,” Dwalin mutters under his breath.

“What?” asks Nori, tied beside him.

“Be quiet!” Dwalin snaps back in a whisper, and, grumbling, Nori subsides.

Finally, Tom speaks. “Maybe we shouldn’t eat ‘em,” he says, sounding subdued.

“You should let them go,” Bilbo declares, his tone so firm Dwalin almost apologizes for being unable to free himself. “As any good bearer would.”

But he’s gone a step too far. Bill jumps as if he’s been slapped. “I’m not a bearer, and I say we eat ‘em all!” he roars. “A dwarf is only good cooked! This burrahobbit’s trying to take us for fools!”

“The dawn take you all!” a new voice cries, and suddenly sunlight spills over the clearing. Dwalin watches in awe as Tom, the only troll he can currently see, turns into stone.

Shocked silence reigns for long moments, before Bofur shouts, “Any way you can magic us down, Gandalf?” Suddenly all the dwarves are talking at once, complaining about their position and congratulating each other on their near miss. By the time Dwalin has his feet back on the ground, he’s almost forgotten that strange pull he felt toward Bilbo when the hobbit was trying to convince the trolls to free them, and his utter terror when the hobbit was taken.

He is reminded when he turns, and bumps into the company burglar. “Excuse me,” Bilbo squeaks, sounding nothing like the strong sire of earlier. Faster than he can think Dwalin has seized the hobbit by his shoulders and is examining him for injuries. “What--- What are you doing?” Bilbo asks, sounding alarmed.

At the sound of his fear, Dwalin immediately releases him. “Are you injured?” he asks gruffly. “The trolls dropped you from some distance.”

“Oh. I mean, no! Not injured,” Bilbo babbles. “A bit sore, perhaps, but nothing more.” He peers up at Dwalin. “What about you? You were terribly close to that fire.”

“I’m fine,” Dwalin said, dismissive. Bilbo’s hair in the firelight glimmers like gold, he thinks to himself. Mortified at his own thoughts, he blurts, “That was… good. Talking to them. How did you know the bearers would obey you?”

Smiling shyly, Bilbo shrugs. “I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I just hoped.”

Thorin’s voice breaks into their conversation, beckoning them all. With a last smile, Bilbo scampers away.

Dwalin takes a long moment to follow, thinking that maybe losing himself is a small price to pay if he gets such smiles as payment.

 

Standing outside the trolls’ cave, Thorin and his new sword make a majestic picture.

Dwalin snorts. “You have an elf sword.”

After a glance to make certain no one else is within earshot, Thorin glares half-heartedly at his friend. “It is a fine weapon.” He moves closer, his expression fading into one of concern. “I know Orcrist will not fail me. Will you?”

Dwalin cannot not hide a flinch. “I am sorry,” he grits out. “I panicked.”

“Yes,” Thorin agrees. “You did. And it will happen again, if you do not recognize the truth.” An odd look crosses his face, half amused and half wistful. “Perhaps even if you do.”

Although uncertain he wants to hear the answer, Dwalin cannot help but ask, “What truth might that be?”

Thorin smiles slightly, without humor. “It is not my place to tell.” 

He turns to leave, but Dwalin grasps his arm, halting his passage. “I thought we could tell each other anything,” he says, trying not to be angry.

“And I never thought you would shy away from admitting what is obvious!” Thorin hisses, and jerks his arm free. “Or do you not trust me with the truth?”

“Again with talk of truths!” Dwalin snaps. “I admitted I panicked, Thorin--what more do you want from me?”

“I want you to know _why_!” Thorin thundered. They are far enough from others that eavesdropping is impossible, but his shout gets attention all the same. The entire company falls silent, staring. After a furtive glance at their intrigued faces, Thorin seizes Dwalin by the shoulder and propels him further from the others.

“You froze,” Thorin whispers venomously. “In the middle of a battle, you froze. Because you were so panicked, so terrified, that you could not think. Just the _sight_ of the hobbit in danger did this. You dropped your weapon before I gave the order because you could not even comprehend causing him harm. You saw your father killed, watched Frerin die, and you did not react so.” He sighed heavily. “I thought it an odd, passing fancy when you watched him so closely, but I can see I was wrong. I admit I do not understand it, but what do I know of love?”

The rushing sound is back in Dwalin’s ears. “I did not speak of love,” he manages to say, though his mouth is suddenly dry.

Thorin’s eyes soften, his look almost pitying. “No. I am speaking for one who is too hard-headed to see for himself. Dwalin,” he says, almost gentle, “he is your One.”

Dwalin takes a single, staggering step back, feeling as dizzy as if Thorin had run him through with his sword. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Bilbo is not my One. I have no One.”

Giving an exasperated huff, Thorin shakes his head. “Believe what you will. You always do,” he says over his shoulder as he walks back to the waiting company.

The company focuses on Thorin’s approach, with the exception of Bilbo. Dwalin can feel the hobbit’s gaze, but this time he doesn’t look back.

The following orc attack serves as a distraction that Dwalin embraces wholeheartedly--a good battle is just what he needs to clear his mind. Seeing Bilbo, small and trembling and terribly brave, inexpertly waving a sword that’s scarcely more than a dagger, makes something ache in Dwalin’s chest, but he focuses on the rhythm of his axe instead. At least now there is something he can do, an enemy he can fight.

The orcs quickly surround them, and Dwalin starts to think their luck has run out for good. It seems wrong, that they will meet their end here, so far away from home, with so much unaccomplished, but that is not what stays in his mind. When he thinks his end is near, all Dwalin can manage is sadness that he has not saved Bilbo. 

It’s possible, he concedes (if only in his mind), that Thorin may be right about this One business.

He does not have time to dwell on this realization, however, as they are quickly saved by elves. When no one is looking, Dwalin and Thorin share an appalled glance at this turn of events, and an even more horrified one when the path they are following turns out to lead them directly to Rivendell.

Bilbo’s expression of open admiration as they approach the elven settlement only makes Dwalin’s mood worsen, to the point where even Elrond’s offering of food does not lift his spirits. He’s staring glumly at his plate of greens when Bilbo rises from his seat beside Balin and moves to stand at Dwalin’s elbow.

While outwardly he is still scowling at his food, Dwalin panics internally. He hadn’t known how to speak to Bilbo before Thorin filled his head with thoughts of Ones; now the thought of conversation with the hobbit is more terrifying than being cornered by another band of orcs. Before he can settle on something to say, Bilbo clears his throat. “Master Dwalin?” he asks timidly.

“Just Dwalin,” he corrects Bilbo before he thinks, and that start gives him the courage to go on. “What do you need?” He gives his plate a scornful poke. “More greens?”

Bilbo laughs, a bit nervously. “No, I’ve already eaten. I was talking to your brother, and he mentioned that you teach dwarves how to fight.”

“Did he?” The great meddler. Dwalin gives Balin a glare, and his brother responds with a wink. “You want to learn to use your blade, I expect.” Even though the idea came from Balin, it’s not a bad one. Any experience with his sword could only help Bilbo, which means Dwalin cannot refuse. He gives the hobbit a nod. “We’ll start in the morning.”

Bilbo beams so beautifully Dwalin has trouble looking directly at him. “Thank you, Dwalin!” he chirps, and returns to his seat.

Well. That conversation did not go too poorly, Dwalin decides. He realizes Oin, seated beside him, is staring. “What?” he grunts. “Do you want lessons, too?”

Oin snorts. “As if you have anything to teach me, laddie.”

He’s still staring, though, so Dwalin barks, “Then what do you want?”

“Just wondering what you’re thinking,” Oin says nonchalantly. “Letting the hobbit call you by name, offering to teach him, and don’t think I missed that your blade was the first to hit the ground when he was held hostage by the trolls.”

Has Oin always been this perceptive? Dwalin does not care. He just wants the old dwarf to _stop talking_. “It’s none of your business,” he growls, leaning in threateningly.

“Perhaps not,” Oin agrees. “At least, not until it interferes with our quest.”

“Which it won’t,” Dwalin snaps, and storms away.

Once he is far enough that he cannot even hear the voices of the company, he pauses, leaning against a wall, and sighs.

There are some battles he’s just so tired of fighting.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks go to my beta, Kookookarli, without whom I never would have had the guts to share this with you all. Kookookarli, you rock!


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